Only that she had to find a way to make him stop following her.
“Emil Anderson, as I live and breathe!”
Olive startled at the booming voice of a barrel-chested man who stepped into their path, his hand already pumping Emil’s up and down with the vigor of a politician in campaign season.
“Mr. Linwood, good to see you.”
“Never took you for an aficionado of Baroque music.”
“Let’s call it a New Year’s resolution,” Emil returned smoothly. “A foray into the finer things of life.”
Olive fought the impulse to roll her eyes, but the man guffawed and leaned in with a conspiratorial wink. “The ladies have that effect on us, to be sure.”
Was she invisible?
“Say, I had a drink with your father last night at the Yacht Club,” Mr. Linwood continued without a glance in her direction. “He assures me the new sloop will be ready for racing season. The old boys will be green with envy when they see me at the helm of Nordstar Boatworks’ latest beauty. The two-year waitlist was worth it, I say.”
“I’m glad to hear it, though I can take no credit in its craftsmanship.”
“No?” Mr. Linwood pursed his lips in thought. “Oh, that’s right. Your father mentioned you’ve opened a little detective outfit.” Olive felt Emil tense at her side. “Can’t imagine why an Anderson wouldn’t want to work for Nordstar,” he continued. “Family business and all. Fine reputation. But I imagine there’s a certain enjoyment involved in tracking down a lost pair of pet chickens named Tweedle and Dee.” He let out another guffaw.
“Is that what my father said I’m doing?” Emil asked in a low, dangerous tone that Olive had never heard before.
“Wish I was clever enough to come up with that one on my own!” When Emil didn’t laugh with him, he sobered and added, “Listen, son. It’s every father’s job to bemoan his children’s actions. And every young man’s duty is to find his own way. Personally, I think it seems easier to take the road already paved in gold than hack through the forest with a butter knife, but what do I know?”
Olive was fascinated by the turn of events. So Emil Anderson, Seattle’s greatest gift to man, had family problems of his own. A kind person would sympathize with his pain. A good person would give him the benefit of the doubt, in light of what they had just learned about him. An honorable person would ignore the chink in his armor.
Too bad she was none of those things where he was concerned.
The wheels had begun their wicked turn when Mr. Linwood chose that moment to step around Emil and directly into her. Because, yes, apparently she was invisible. A small grunt escaped before she could stop it, all her focus put toward not toppling backward. To her surprise, Emil’s hand shot out to steady her, firm against the small of her back. She had barely registered it before he pulled away.
“I beg your pardon. Didn’t see you there, Miss…”
“Miss Olive Becket,” Emil supplied.
“Becket,” Mr. Linwood repeated. “Now, how do I know that name?”
It was Olive’s turn to tense—she knew exactly how he knew her. She could only hope his memory was as poor as his bank account was rich.
“There you are, darling.” A short, buxom woman slipped her arm through Mr. Linwood’s, her pleasant smile faltering when she caught sight of Olive. “Why, it’s Olive Becket.”
Olive’s stomach sank. Where was that dratted sinkhole when she needed it? She forced herself to stand tall, to meet the woman’s gaze briefly. And because she’d made the effort, she caught the quick, unmistakable, head-to-toe appraisal. The way the woman’s gaze lingered slightly too long on her blouse, one her mother no longer had use for now that she never left the house. It was a nice blouse, though a bit outdated. She tucked her hands behind her back before the woman noticed how the peach fabric was a shade darker at her cuffs—an obvious tell that it had been let out to accommodate her longer arms.
“Good day, Mrs. Linwood,” she managed.
The woman’s smile was kind, if a bit remote. “It’s lovely to see you. It’s been such a long time.”
“That’s it,” Mr. Linwood exclaimed. “You used to perform duets with our Miranda. My, that was ages ago, wasn’t it?”
“A lifetime,” she agreed. “And how is Miranda?”
Mrs. Linwood beamed. “She’s wonderful. She’s in her last semester at Oberlin?—”
“Completing a Bachelor’s in music,” Mr. Linwood interjected, waggling his brows at Emil. “She’s a wonder, our Miranda.”
“She was always a gifted pianist.” It wasn’t hard to be gracious. She had fond memories of the girl who, fortunately for her, possessed both her mother’s looks and tact. They’d auditioned for junior membership the same year, and once they were accepted, had spent many hours in the practice room together. Their falling out, unlike what had happened with Trudy, hadn’t been deliberate so much as circumstantial—it was hard to maintain a friendship when there was no time to meet.
“Do you—” Mrs. Linwood hesitated. “Do you still play?”
